


Watson's Anatomy

by Calais_Reno



Series: Just Johnlock [13]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Don't copy to another site, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 03:34:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29429634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calais_Reno/pseuds/Calais_Reno
Summary: John and Sherlock's first Valentine's Day as a couple.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Just Johnlock [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1856749
Comments: 43
Kudos: 88





	Watson's Anatomy

There never was a more difficult man to pick out a gift for than Sherlock Holmes, John reflected. Having made it through Christmas (special order silk shirts) and his birthday (dinner and concert tickets), his relief was short-lived when he remembered that Valentine’s Day was approaching.

He’d heard Sherlock ridicule sentiment on many occasions. He particularly seemed to dislike Valentine’s Day, considering it a holiday made up by greeting card companies for the purpose of humiliating those who received none. In this, John read years of being overlooked by his classmates, and at least one occasion (probably) where he’d given a card and received none in return. Unrequited love is a hard lesson, especially for a school boy just discovering his orientation.

But there was no unrequited love at 221B Baker Street. John would make up for all those missed valentines on this, their first Valentine’s Day as a couple. He was uncertain whether Sherlock would reciprocate, but that didn’t matter to him. Sherlock hated shopping, and often overlooked John’s birthday because the world didn’t send out reminders in March as it did at Christmas. He probably wouldn’t get anything for John, either because he’d overlooked the holiday, or because he didn’t consider it worthy of notice.

Even so, John set out to find a gift for his flatmate, now lover. Something small, not overwhelming; meaningful, but not so expensive or weighty that Sherlock would feel guilty that he hadn’t gotten anything for John. A token of affection. They were not a demonstrative couple, confining physical displays of affection to the bedroom; outside of that, they showed their love in small touches and the way they treated each other.

He spent an hour wandering through Harrod’s. Sherlock generally did not wear off-the-rack clothing, but John had bought him a scarf here one Christmas and Sherlock had loved it. Hoping inspiration would strike again, he walked through the menswear department, seeing mostly things that were out of range, too expensive for what he had in mind, or too common and cheap. Another scarf? He already had a half dozen that he regularly wore. Even Sherlock Holmes only needed so many scarves.

He stopped at a display of socks. Sherlock did love his silk socks, so much that he kept them indexed in his drawer. And socks were something you really couldn’t have too many of.

Fifteen minutes later he was riding the bus home, a small, flat box tucked into his pocket. He’d picked up a card to go with it, and would write something romantic before giving it to Sherlock tomorrow. He would prop it up on the table so Sherlock couldn’t miss it when he finally decided to wake up and eat breakfast.

In the morning he set the table, wishing he’d stopped for some flowers to make it more festive. No matter, he thought; at least he’d remembered. At Sherlock’s seat, he propped his card in front of the present. Then he began to make French toast, Sherlock’s favourite.

As he dipped the crusty bread in the batter, he wondered how Sherlock would react to his present. At Christmas he’d been pleased, in an understated way. Since it was just the two of them, exchanging gifts at home, they’d kissed. On his birthday, others were present at the small party John had organised and Sherlock had balked at. He’d never had a birthday party before, he said, and wasn’t about to start now. Still, he’d enjoyed having their few friends gather for cake and punch, and had been gracious to everyone.

Anticipating that Sherlock had no intention of observing the day, John imagined him growing a bit teary as he realised again how much John loved him. He wouldn’t make Sherlock feel bad about having forgotten, of course. He’d kiss him tenderly and say, _I just wanted you to know how special you are to me._

As always, Sherlock materialised just as the first pieces of toast were ready. He smiled and gave John a quick kiss, then sat down.

“Oh,” he said, seeing John’s card. “ _Oh_.”

John smiled. “I know you don’t like Valentine’s Day, but I wanted to get you something because it’s our first. It’s all right if you—“

Sherlock jumped up from the table and disappeared. John heard drawers being opened and closed in the bedroom, Sherlock mumbling to himself. Then, “Ah!”

He reappeared in the kitchen holding a thick envelope. Handing it to John, he sat down and began to eat his French toast. “Open it,” he said around a mouthful.

John sat down, hefting the envelope cautiously. “I gave you mine first, so you should be opening that.”

Sherlock shook his head, grinning. “No, you have to open mine first.”

“All right.” There wasn’t much opening involved. John opened the envelope and slid out a small book, handmade. The cover was designed to look like a textbook, adorned by a small drawing of John posing as the Vitruvian Man.

“ _Watson’s Anatomy,_ ” he read.

Sherlock gestured. “Go on. Open it.”

The first page featured a drawing of what could only be described as—

“A lung?” He’d been expecting something quite different.

“The heart is overrated as a symbol of love,” explained Sherlock. “The lung is symbolic as well.”

“ _You take my breath away,”_ John read. “That’s… very thoughtful, Sherlock.” He turned the page. “Are buttocks also a symbol of love?”

“Why not? I happen to like yours a lot,” Sherlock said, licking confectioner’s sugar from his lips. “Yours are very shapely. Taut, muscular.”

“ _Everything is boring…_ ** _butt_** _you_.” He turned the page. “Is this a spleen?”

“Of course it is. Can’t you see the pancreas right there next to it?”

“Now I do. What is the romantic significance of a spleen?”

“The spleen, as you know, is an important part of the immune system. It continually screens the blood for suspicious microbes. In the same way, you keep me right, screening for idiots and protecting me from illness.”

John sees that the tiny spleen is smiling and saying, _You keep me right, John Watson!_

As he turns the pages he finds a brain that looks like it’s about to explode. “Is it radioactive?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Read the caption, John.”

“ _Your brain may be little and funny, but it is my conductor of light._ Oh, is that copper wire? I see. My brain… and there’s a light bulb.”

As he went through the remaining pages, he was not terribly surprised to find two kidneys and a bladder ( _Urine my thoughts constantly_ ), bones ( _I ulna want tibia your Valentine),_ a pair of eyes ( _I only have eyes for you_ ), a nose and salacious-looking mouth ( _You smell so good, I could eat you up_ ), and finally, a penis looking longingly at what first appeared to be a starfish.

“That’s an anus, right?”

“Obviously. Read the last page.”

On the last page (at last) there was a heart, not a cartoon Valentine heart, but an anatomically correct heart, meticulously drawn. The caption read: _Much more than just your heart, I love every part of you, not only today, but every day of our lives. You are the em-_ ** _body_** _-ment of love._

Overwhelmed, he stared at the tiny drawing of the two of them hugging. “I knew you could draw, but I had no idea you liked puns so much,” he said. “Thank you. You put a lot of thought into this. I love it.” His throat clenched a bit as he said this, strangling his words.

“Puns are a very intelligent form of humour, you know,” Sherlock replied. “People who make up puns are above average, mentally.” He had finished his French toast and was reaching for John’s card and gift. “My turn.”

Suddenly John was embarrassed. How could a pair of sock compare with what Sherlock had made for him? However odd and quirky, the little anatomy book was perfect. It had required thought and time, and it was completely Sherlock.

“Erm,” he said. “I wasn’t sure what to get you…”

Sherlock had already read the card. He was smiling at John’s note, no doubt thinking how sentimental it was. Then he ripped the paper from the flat box and took out the small present. The socks were black, since that was what Sherlock normally wore, but had tiny red hearts knit into them, tasteful enough not to be noticeable. John noted, with chagrin, that they barely looked like hearts. Tiny red blobs, then.

Sherlock had made him a one-of-a-kind present that he’d never wear out or throw away. And he’d gotten Sherlock a pair of socks.

“I…” he said, not sure how to finish the sentence.

But Sherlock was smiling broadly. “John! Where did you find socks with spleens on them? I _love_ them!”

He pulled John into his lap and kissed him soundly. When they finally separated, John looked down at the socks, blushing as red as the tiny spleens.

“You know, those were supposed to be hearts.”

“Hearts are boring,” Sherlock replied. “My spleen belongs to you.”


End file.
